Much to Hope
by Savethellamas
Summary: Holmes and Watson embarked on this kidnapping case together but things have since gone horribly wrong. Can the assistance of a new friend help Dr. Watson through these troubled times? One-shot.


During the spring of the year 1895, my friend Sherlock Holmes was employed by Mr. George Hawthorne to find his missing wife. Holmes had not been very interested in the matter when it was first presented to him. It was devoid of any of those outré details which were so important to him. Mr. Hawthorne also happened to live far away in the country and Holmes was loath to leave London for what he deemed a petty affair. However, I knew as his physician that a visit to the country would be beneficial to his health. He was just getting over a dreadful illness. Not to mention that I was extremely worried about the missing woman. I therefore prevailed upon him to take up the case, and after much careful persuasion on my part, he finally agreed.

But since we were now being held at gunpoint by two burly ruffians, I was starting to regret that I had endorsed this particular venture.

It had turned out that Mrs. Hawthorne's brother was a former member of a gang of London thieves. He had turned traitor, abandoning the group for a more honest living and taking much of their money along with him. He had escaped to the small country village where his sister and her family resided only to die in a tragic accident soon afterward. This had all occurred several weeks before our arrival. Two representatives from the group of thieves had finally caught up with their former ally and after learning of his demise, took their revenge by kidnapping his sister.

My blood boiled to think of how the poor woman had been treated. To be snatched from her husband and child and held captive by these awful brutes…I could not even begin to fathom how terrified she undoubtedly was. Worse still, Mrs. Hawthorne had absolutely nothing to do with any of her brother's criminal deeds, I doubted she was even _aware_ of her brother's criminal deeds, and yet these villains saw fit to drag her into this wretched business anyway. They had tied her up, gagged her, and positioned her on the floor beside us so she could watch when the criminals eventually killed us. Her limp form did not struggle against the ropes that held her. Paralyzed with fear, she did not move save for her eyes. Her gaze switched rapidly, alternating between anxious glances at us and fleeting, timid peeks at the criminals. While restrained, she could do nothing else but watch and wait, the painting of hopelessness and defeat.

Defeated because we, the only reason Mrs. Hawthorne had even the slimmest chance of making it out of this disaster unscathed, had failed her. Rescue was inches away when we had erred. It was a simple mistake, we had left one room of this vacant house unchecked, but it was enough to get ourselves captured and possibly enough to deprive an innocent woman of her freedom forever. And the poor girl knew it. If the eyes are the window to the soul, then her soul was fading away more rapidly each minute. There had to be something I could do to save her from this den of evil. If I grabbed her now and used my own body as a shield from the guns, perhaps I could get her out of here alive. Any injury I might sustain would be a small price to pay for my own carelessness.

But Holmes would still be here. There was no way I could leave him behind.

He must have deduced what I was thinking for he gave a small shake of his head, a warning not to do anything rash.

"What're you shakin' your 'ead for, eh?" the larger of the two thugs snarled, "Didn't I say not to move a muscle?"

"You have my apologies, Jackson" Holmes said placidly.

"Don't you think you can slip past us, Mr. Holmes," the other one joined in, "We're too smart for that, we are,"

"Oh, I can see that, Williams, I assure you. I wouldn't dream of trying to, ah, slip past you. I was merely contemplating the tragic waste of human life that stands before me."

"The what?"

"Are you insultin' us, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"Just think of it, gentlemen-why you both must be nearing fifty years of age. Yet what have you done with your lives? Here you are, wasting away, climbing the ranks of this criminal organization of the mundane. And what do you get out of it? Nothing. You will die with no one to mourn you, and you will not have made the slightest difference to anyone. Quite a rewarding job."

"I like my job just fine, Mr. 'Olmes, so you can shut your trap."

"Yes, we can't all be fancy master detectives, now can we?"

I realized that Holmes was attempting to provide me with a distraction by prattling on about random nonsense. While the buffoons were busy becoming irritated with him over trivial matters, I might be able to rescue Mrs. Hawthorne. It was a risky maneuver but as far as I could see, there were no other options. I therefore lunged at Jackson, catching him off guard. I knocked him to the floor, wrenching his pistol from his grasp. As he struggled in vain, I promptly hit him on the head with his own gun, knocking him out, and turned it on Williams before he even knew what was happening.

"Bravo, Watson!" Holmes cried. "Admirably done! Now, Williams, drop your own gun, if you please," he barked.

"I am not afraid to shoot," I added.

"Very well, I know when my tables are turned," he growled, placing the gun on the floor by his fallen comrade.

Holmes instructed me to keep my gun trained on Williams while he freed the thoroughly shaken Mrs. Hawthorne and helped her to her feet. She said not a word but gazed wide-eyed at him, the timid caged bird who has been shown the sky.

"There you go, dearie," the criminal said mockingly, "Don't it feel nice to have those ropes off of you?"

"Stop talking to her," I warned.

"I'll do and say as I please, Doctor. Ooh, poor little dearie, look at her shake!"

Mrs. Hawthorne's trembling was indeed growing even more pronounced. She raised an unsteady hand, cautiously pointing behind me, her face wearing a look of absolute terror. I turned and saw something that made my insides turn cold. Jackson had come to and was crawling towards the gun on the floor. Holmes swore as we both ran to stop him, but alas, we were too late. Jackson had managed to successfully grab the revolver and worse still; Williams had taken advantage of our distraction to snatch Mrs. Hawthorne.

"Toss that pistol over here, there's a good chap," Williams drawled. Jackson did so and his comrade held it to his hostage's head. "Now, this should be fairly obvious, but if either of you moves, the woman dies."

"Release her, Williams!" I said fiercely, "There's nothing you can gain by killing her. Let her go."

"Oh I shall, Doctor, once you put that pistol down. It doesn't belong to you, you know,"

I glanced at Holmes and could practically see the wheels of his brain turning as he tried to determine a way out of our predicament. I was reluctant to give up our sole weapon, but if Holmes was working on a plan, then I had full faith in him. He nodded his reluctant agreement with my decision and I set the gun down.

"Very good, Doctor," Williams said, "Now say goodbye to your little friend!"

"Monster! You said you'd release her!"

"I was not talking about the woman. Dear me, Dr. Watson, don't you have any other friends?" he sneered, pointing his gun at Holmes.

"NO!"

Too late-Williams had pressed the trigger. Too late-Holmes was falling, a marionette with the strings cut, and crumpling gracefully to the floor in a heap. He did not stir. As the world stopped turning and life lost meaning, I dimly head the criminals talking to one another.

"Blimey, you've killed 'im!" Jackson yelled.

"That was the idea."

"You idiot, Williams, we don' need no more coppers after us!"

"No, we probably don't. But how are they to find us without the talents of our dear detective friend? You know we are far too clever for the likes of those local officials."

"Still, I'm not taking any chances. Come on, let's scarper. Get rid of that girl!"

Williams shoved Mrs. Hawthorne to the ground and the two fiends bolted. I made no attempt to stop them as I rushed to my friend's side. Mrs. Hawthorne joined me, staring blankly at the ruin before her. She seemed unharmed, aside from the shock etched in her face. But had I traded one life for another?

The bullet had struck near Holmes's subclavian artery. His previously white collar was stained a sinister red. But he was alive, thank God, though his pulse was entirely too faint and his breathing shallow and unsteady. He was not out of danger yet. I set to work at once.

"Mrs. Hawthorne, I'm going to need assistance," I said gently, "Do you think you could get the village doctor? And the police should be informed; they've got to catch those two scoundrels. Do you think you could manage that?"

I had some doubts about the state of the woman's nerves but there wasn't anyone I else I could turn to for help. She nodded, squeezing my hand softly, as if to assure me that things would be alright, and then rose unsteadily to her feet.

But she was wrong. Things were _not _going to be alright. Holmes was turning paler by the second. Each medical instinct I possessed was whispering the worst in my ear. Each scenario my mind conjured up was equally dreadful. But the worst part of it all was knowing that none of this would have occurred had it not been for my own carelessness. Holmes had been shot in front of me and I had done nothing to prevent it. The greatest detective the world had ever seen and the greatest friend I had ever known could be gone any moment and it was my own fault. The guilt had been swimming around me since the bullet hit, but now it was starting to overcome me. I gave into it, letting it pull me under as I broke down and wept.

* * *

I later received word that the local officials had apprehended Jackson and Williams. I was relieved to hear this, but it did not change the fact that Holmes was still seriously injured. The Hawthornes had been kind enough to offer their spare room for my friend's use. There was no hospital in this small village and no chance of moving Holmes in his fragile condition, so I was incredibly grateful to them for their hospitality. So far, I was not seeing much improvement in my friend's condition. Though he had assured me that he did not blame me in the slightest for his injury, the guilt and shame that I felt would not leave me.

Mrs. Hawthorne still spoke not a word and remained motionless in her bed. I assured her family that it was mere shock from being in such a frightful situation. The daughter had nodded and accepted my explanation as correct, but the continual near-vegetative state of his wife was frequently throwing Mr. Hawthorne into a frenzied panic, and nothing I could say could console him. Another mistake, I reflected. If I could not help Mrs. Hawthorne, then I would be responsible for the destruction of the happiness of her family.

The majority of my time was occupied by caring for Holmes and Mrs. Hawthorne but I had been spending my nights at the village inn. It was a few days after the incident when I heard a knocking at the door. I opened it to find young Clarisse Hawthorne standing there. Only seven years of age, Clarisse was a delightful child. She enjoyed helping me care for Holmes and her mother and had told me that she wanted to be a nurse when she was older. She was a very inquisitive child, continually asking me questions, always wearing a look of wide-eyed astonishment when I told her the answers. But today it was my turn to be astonished when I saw her at the inn at such an early hour. I had not been awake ten minutes yet.

"What's the matter, Clarisse? Is your mother well?"

"She was coughing last night. I heard her. Papa wants you to come right away."

"This very instant? Is she even awake yet?"

"Oh yes," she said knowledgably, "I saw her. Please come, Doctor. Papa's getting very nervous again. And you know how he is when he's very nervous."

"I do indeed," I muttered, "Then I suppose there's no time to waste. Let's be off."

She led me through the streets of the village, taking my hand so I wouldn't lose my way. I didn't have the heart to tell her that the path to her house, so filled with guilt and anxiety, was already burned into my memory.

"Excuse me!" a voice called, "Are you Dr. Watson?" The speaker was a middle-aged woman whom I had never seen before, presumably a resident of the village.

"I'm not Dr. Watson," Clarisse chimed in, "But he is."

"I know _that_, I wasn't talking to you."

"I'm his assistant though. I'm going to be a nurse, so I can help people, like Dr. Watson does."

"That's nice. Shouldn't you run along and play now?" the woman said brusquely, "Anyway, Doctor, I heard that Sherlock Holmes was in town. Is it true? Do you think I could see him? He's my favorite book character, you know."

"He is here, but he has been grievously injured."

"That's too bad. Could I still see him? I want his autograph."

"As his doctor, I must say no."

"Will he be alright? I adore the stories you write about him. I should be very irritated if they had to end."

"Yes, well, we can certainly hope that there will be more," I said coldly. "Good day to you."

I was not in the mood to deal with someone who only saw Holmes as a character from the pages of a magazine. He was a real person, with real suffering and the little tales I wrote for the Strand could only provide a glimpse of the remarkable man I knew him to be. To hear him talked about with no more concern than if he was Jim Hawkins or Tiny Tim disgusted me.

"She was awfully cross, "Clarisse observed, peering after the woman as she walked away, "We turn left here, Doctor, don't forget!"

We had not walked ten steps when we were accosted by an old man with a notepad and pen.

"You must be Dr. Watson," he said excitedly.

"Yes, how may I help you?"

"I'm a reporter from the Times. We heard about Mr. Holmes being injured. Could I ask you a few questions? If you don't mind my asking, how was Mr. Holmes injured?"

"He was shot while on a case. We were in the midst of rescuing a kidnapped woman."

"Were you armed as well?"

"No."

"Oh," he said, disappointed, "I thought maybe you would have had your old service revolver with you, like in those stories you write."

"I had left it behind,"

"Why didn't you bring it?"

"I didn't think we'd need it."

"But obviously, you were wrong," he pressed.

"Well, yes. The criminals were waiting for us in the house where the woman was being held. It was a trap."

"Wait a moment; you didn't check the house first?"

"I… missed a room," I mumbled, staring down at my feet, not able to look the man in the face.

"Oh," he said solemnly, "So the criminals snuck up on you and shot Mr. Holmes?"

"Not exactly. I did manage to knock one of the blackguards out and take his gun but-"

"But Mr. Holmes was still shot."

"Yes. I wasn't able to…keep possession of the gun. The unconscious fellow woke up," I added lamely, ashamed of my negligence.

"Oh," he said gravely, "Will Mr. Holmes be alright?"

"I hope so," I replied. I could not stand talking to this man any longer, this fellow who was so adept at pointing out my blunders, "I'm afraid I have to be going now. Come along, Clarisse."

We continued on our way. Clarisse was deep in thought, her brow furrowed as if she was trying to remember something.

"Dr. Watson?" she finally asked.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Why doesn't anyone ever ask _you _if you're alright? The cross lady didn't and neither did the newspaper man."

"Oh, they don't need to ask. I'm fine."

"No, you aren't," she declared, shaking her head, "But they only ask about Mr. Holmes."

"That's because he's hurt. I'm not."

"Yes, you are. I'm only seven and I can tell. Your eyes aren't right."

"What do you mean?"

"They're sad. Even when you're smiling and talking to me, they're sad."

"You're just imagining things."

She studied me meticulously, her head tilted in confusion. Then she straightened up suddenly, as though she had finally found the answer to a particularly challenging puzzle.

"It isn't your fault, Dr. Watson."

"What?"

"It's not your fault that Mr. Holmes is hurt."

"Clarisse, you weren't there. I made so many mistakes that day, I didn't even bring my gun-"

"Wait!" she interrupted, "Did Mr. Holmes tell you that you should bring your gun?"

"No, he didn't. But that's just the beginning. I didn't look over the house carefully enough."

"But Mr. Holmes was looking with you."

"Yes, but you can't say that it was his fault."

"I'm not. It doesn't have to be anybody's fault. You can make a mistake sometimes."

"You don't understand. I was so careless. I let them use your mother as a hostage, I turned my back while Jackson picked up the gun, and I missed everything that was important."

"You didn't mean-"

"And when Holmes was shot, I couldn't do anything! He is my closest friend. I heard Williams laughing, I saw him press the trigger, and I was still too late to save him."

"Did you shoot him?"

"Of course not!"

"Then it's not your fault. The other man hurt him, but you're helping him get better. You did save him."

I considered what she had said. Yes, I had made many mistakes. Yes, I could have been more careful. But perhaps some of our misfortunes were out of my control. Holmes had only survived because I was able to provide medical assistance. Without my help, Holmes would not be alive.

I had never even thought of that before.

"Doctor?" Clarisse asked, "Does Mr. Holmes like flowers?"

"He likes poisonous plants. He knows a lot about them. But he doesn't really care for flowers, no."

"Oh," she said dejectedly.

"Why do you ask?"

"There's a meadow by our house. I thought if we picked some flowers, he would get better and then you could be happy again."

I couldn't even think of how to respond. How was it that this little girl could prove to lift my spirits so easily? I hardly knew her, yet her warmth and kindness was bringing tears to my eyes.

"Doctor? Doctor? Are you alright?" she panicked.

"Yes, I'm fine," I said, wiping the moisture in my eyes away, "Yes, let's pick flowers. Come on, we'll get some for your mother too."

Clarisse and I didn't have much time, for I knew her father would be looking for us, but we still managed to pick two good-sized bouquets. Upon our arrival, we went straight to Mrs. Hawthorne's room and arranged her flowers in a vase.

"Oh, how lovely!" Mrs. Hawthorne cried, "Thank you both!"

I stared at her in utter amazement. This was the first time she had said a word since the incident. Clarisse ran about the room excitedly, shouting the news for all to hear.

"You spoke, you spoke!" she sang, "Did you hear, Papa? Mother spoke!"

When I examined Mrs. Hawthorne, I found her to be in a much better condition than I had ever seen her. I had the satisfaction of telling her family that she would make a full recovery. Then I left them to celebrate and went into Holmes's room to deliver the other bouquet. He was asleep, so I set the blooms by his pillow.

"He'll get better now," a voice coming from behind me stated. I turned to see Clarisse peeking out from the doorway. "I'm sure he'll get better," she added, "Mother did."

Over the next few days, Holmes did show signs of improvement. But there were still dark times ahead for us. I found him one evening in the clutches of a horrible nightmare. His covers were tossed all over the place and he was moaning in his sleep.

"I'm here, Holmes," I murmured anxiously, "It's alright."

"No," he groaned, "Not the gun, don't shoot me! Not again!"

"No one's going to shoot you, dear fellow. It's just a dream."

"A dream," he mumbled, finally beginning to calm down, "Just a dream."

He dozed off peacefully soon afterward, but I wasn't sure if I should leave him that evening in case he had any more nightmares. However, the Hawthornes promised to look after him and were most insistent about me getting some rest, so I made my sorry way back to the inn. Slowly, I had been coming to terms with the fact that Holmes had been so badly injured, but there was still remorse and shame to deal with. Holmes had been bedridden for a week already. Wasn't there anything I could do to ease his pain and to help him get well faster? If I was a more competent doctor, perhaps he wouldn't be having nightmares. I had to find a way to help him. These dreams were my fault; I had to make them disappear. But I could think of no way to do so, which only further proved my own lack of worth.

I trudged slowly up the dark, shadowy stairs. When I tried to open the door, I clumsily dropped the key. What a miserable failure I was. I couldn't even open a door correctly. Finally, I succeeded and entered my dingy little room. I sank into a chair and rested my head in my hands, feeling completely worthless. But when I raised my head, I saw something that helped my spirits to lift. I smiled broadly, for there on the pillow was a fresh-picked bouquet of flowers.

* * *

"…_and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."-NAVA_


End file.
